


Just Us Chickens

by ProfessorFlimflam



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Firsts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 04:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11547660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFlimflam/pseuds/ProfessorFlimflam
Summary: The first time they go to Albie’s together, Bernie thinks it’s a general invitation for the team, and is surprised to find herself cosied up alone with Serena on one of the tartan sofas.





	Just Us Chickens

**Author's Note:**

> Later than the advertised yesterday, here is day 2 of Berena Apprecation Week, with a first day together in surgery, Bernie's first time at Albie's, and maybe another first, too - or it feels a bit like it to Bernie.
> 
> A nod to a favourite scene, too, though taken quite out of context and timeline. I think we can all agree it's a habit, though, and now we know why ;-)

Surgery has gone well today - very well, in fact. Bernie hasn’t been down on AAU for long, but she can already tell that she and Serena Campbell are going to work well together. They’d cleared their schedules of paperwork, teaching, ward rounds and all other minor irritations, and ensured that they’ve had as much theatre time as possible today. Serena had suggested it: had wanted to spend some time seeing where their respective strengths and weaknesses lay, how they complemented each other in theatre, where they might need to improve communication, or what areas might prove topics of contention between them.

They are both pleasantly surprised to find an easy rapport and and intuitive understanding almost straight away. There are one or disagreements about the best way to proceed, but nothing major, and in each instance, they can agree that either approach would produce broadly the same outcome. Far from ruffling each other's feathers, it is refreshing to find a colleague who can take an opposing view, defend it medically and intellectually, but who can listen, consider, and then capitulate - or, perhaps even better, stand their ground and explain - respectfully but firmly - why option a is preferable to option b. Even Serena understands that it's not good to be the consultant no-one dares challenge, and she thinks she can take a challenge from Bernie Wolfe, and rise to it when necessary. She can see already how they might make each other better doctors, better surgeons.

On Bernie’s part, she finds that for once she is working with someone who is neither cowed by her reputation, or threatened by it. No showboating from Ms Campbell, she is glad to see. But then it’s usually male colleagues who seem to think they have something to prove. She sees Serena eyeing her technique carefully, as though she’s taking notes (which indeed she is), but her gaze is thoughtful, not critical. Bernie pays the same attention to Serena’s work, admiring the dexterity she shows working with the fine vessels as she goes in after Bernie has cleared the debris from a trauma injury.

They chat comfortably throughout the day, at first mostly about surgery: the patient they are working on, other cases they have seen that have some bearing, then more generally about the job and their career paths - so different in many ways, but both leading them here, to this theatre on an early winter’s day in Holby. Bernie has often found it easier to talk in theatre than anywhere else - something about the stillness, the focus on the task that somehow frees up her inhibitions a little. The cap and mask probably help wth that, too, she reflects. What a lot you can say just with the eyes - and what a lot you can hide behind a surgical mask.

They finish up, leave one of the more competent F2s to close up, and scrub out, taking a breather before the next session.

“What have we got next?” Bernie asks, still fresh, bright. She’s on a roll, is enjoying this unexpected partnership. She finds it often takes a while to find her balance with a fellow surgeon, but here there has been no battle for dominance - which, to be honest, she had fully expected with Serena. She is as pleased as she is surprised to find her fears unfounded.

Serena almost double takes at the list. “”We’re through. Done and dusted.” There’s a note of astonishment in her voice, and Bernie smiles a small, wry smile.

“You mean we’ve healed everyone? Alleluia!”

“Amen, sister. Well, may every surgery go as well as today, is all I can say. What a team, eh?”

Bernie’s smile is wider now. “I’ll drink to that,” she says warmly, and Serena pounces.

“Marvellous. Go and get changed, and we’ll head over to Albie’s.”

Bernie raises an enquiring eyebrow. “Albie’s?”

“Our dedicated watering hole. It’s where everyone goes after work to decompress. You can hear yourself talk, the carpets aren't sticky and they stock a surprisingly passable Shiraz. What more could you ask for? Come on, I’m buying.” And Bernie finds herself swept along the corridor to the locker room to change back into what she still thinks of as her civvies, then over the road and round the corner to what she has to agree is a very civilised little bar, lit brightly enough to see that it is indeed cleaner than your average city bar, with grown up decor and a low key buzz of conversation and - hurrah! - no piped music.

She looks round for familiar faces - Raf is still working, and Fletch will be at home with his brood, but Dr Digby only finished half an hour ago, and she knows Ollie has been working today. She still has a soft spot for the man who has held her heart in his hands, though it grows a little less soft each time they clash professionally. She joins Serena a at the bar, and hitching up her pale pink coat, she hoicks her leg over the tall stool. Serena side-eyes her. “Saddle up, cowgirl,’’ she smirks. Bernie blushes slightly.

“Silly habit - I still treat everything's as though it's a motorbike, though I haven’t ridden for years.” She turns to the bar, getting her purse out. “I hear the Shiraz is good - I’ll have a small glass, please.”

Serena puts her hand over Bernie’s, pushing her purse away, and says to the barman, “Just give us the bottle and two glasses, hmm?”

Bernie protests that she's not drinking half a bottle, and Serena looks at her, lips pursed. “No, you’re not.” It takes her a moment, but then Bernie laughs, and Serena almost falls off her stool at the extraordinary sound.

“That is _glorious_! I shall need to hear that more often. Come on, let’s find somewhere more a bit more comfy.”

They end up on a firm but comfortable sofa by the fire. Bernie frets a little that there’s no room for any latecomers, but Serena smiles and says, “Just us chickens tonight, I think. Arthur looked absolutely wiped, so I imagine he’ll either be curled up with Dr Shreve, or Dom and Zosia will be looking after him at home. You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid.” Her voice has a lightness to it, an almost anxious note.

Bernie stretches her stiff back against the firm back of the settee. “No making do about it - you're all the company I need. I’m not really one for big groups - all a bit overwhelming.” She looks up, glancing shyly at Serena though her long fringe. It softens her strong features, Serena thinks, makes her look much younger than she knows they both are.

“Goodness, however did you cope in the mess hall? That must have been an absolute rabble!” They fall into easy conversation, carrying on from where they left off in theatre. They talk about the parallels and differences between the armed forces and the NHS; the conflicts between the demands of medicine and those of bureaucracy; the precarious balance between work and home. They skate over home life, though their children merit a brief mention. Afterwards, Bernie can’t think what else they talked about, though the second bottle of Shiraz may have something to do with that. She hadn't even noticed Serena ordering it, and by the time they finish it, Serena has had her wish granted several times over, and Bernie’s laugh has, incredibly, got louder.

The ringing of the bell cuts across a particularly sonorous honk, and they look at each other wide-eyed as time is called at the bar. They are the last to leave, and they are still laughing as they fight over who should have the first taxi, each insisting that the other go first. Bernie’s chivalry proves irresistible, and as she clambers inelegantly into the taxi, Serena clutches her sleeve and says what a lovely evening she’s had. She leans forward, and for a moment, Bernie thinks she’s going to kiss her cheek. Serena sways back again, laughs and collapses into the back seat.

“Bright and early on parade tomorrow morning, soldier!” she calls from the open window as the taxi pulls off, and Bernie salutes as smartly as the best part of a bottle of Shiraz will let her.

She waits at the taxi rank for less than a minute before deciding to walk home to clear her head. It’s been a long day, but she’s not really tired. The two mile walk through the cold, dry night air wakes her up even more, and it's not until she gets home and shucks off her coat, takes her boots off, that she starts to wind down. She pours herself a whisky she will probably regret in the morning, and sits for a while in the soft light of the lamp Marcus has left on in the living room.

She rinses the glass, puts it away. In the bathroom, she brushes her teeth, wipes away the last traces of makeup. The wine and the laughter and the walk home have left her with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, and she smiles at her own reflection. She looks as though she’s been on a date, a good one.

On the landing, she looks at the bedroom door. There’s no strip of light at the bottom: evidently Marcus has long since gone to bed, to sleep, and she doesn’t want to wake him.

She sleeps in the spare room that night.


End file.
